As they shook hands, the doorbell rang.
Brenda opened the screen door, and Rayette stepped out. “Did you say that’s a realtor?” Brenda nodded. “Listen, honey, don’t sign anything, and I’m not joking. They’re all sharks.” She winked and moved along the screen.
2:40 p.m.
Went first to “”Playa del Suenos” = Beach of Dreams. A good name: nothing’s been built except a video. But Noelle says the developer has deposits on forty percent. Noelle is using the tour to pitch me. “You owe yourself a nice Naples ‘pied-à-terre,’” she says.
Next, Island Walk. Copper-domed community center/ice cream parlor/gas station/car wash. Think the Duomo in Florence, plus gelati and unleaded regular—
Brenda looked up from her notebook as Noelle Harmon passed again outside the café. They had just finished lunch, and the realtor was taking another call. Pacing and gesturing, Harmon was definitely a real-estate shark, and a good one. In her early forties, she was blonde and trim, well turned out in a red silk pantsuit. Unlike Rayette Peticore, Harmon had pale, unlined skin. She was no sun worshipper.
Even so, she had wanted Brenda to see the Naples beach. Just before lunch she had driven them to the end of Seagate Boulevard. Noelle sat on the car’s back bumper and pulled on a pair of Nikes, then led Brenda along a path through sea grape. Looming above them on both sides were high rises. A minute later they stepped out into full sun.
Brenda had slipped off her flats and crossed warm sand. The aqua-tinted Gulf spread before her, calm and glittering. Two couples zipped past on jet skis; small craft lazed farther out with people fishing. Farther still, two sailboats were moving north.
Noelle said the 9/11 attack had spooked a lot of tourists. That was why the beach wasn’t crowded. The two had walked then, keeping clear of the wave flap. The high end of the market had suffered, Noelle said, but the downturn wouldn’t last. Soon, the good times would roll again, and when they did, the beach would be why.
She had pointed ahead. A broad banner with LE BONHEUR in huge blue letters hung down the side of a high rise. That’s one of the last condo towers being built in Pelican Bay, Noelle said. Shading her eyes, Brenda had looked up at ornate windows and jutting terraces. They’ve dropped the price on those condos twice, Noelle told her. Now’s the time to cut a deal. In a few months, you can flip your way to fame and fortune. Brenda had smiled, looking up. This was why Harmon wanted her to see the beach.
A child laughed. On Brenda’s left sat a girl of five or six, working on a chocolate sundae almost the size of her blonde head. A white-haired couple sat opposite, drinking coffee. At first, it had surprised her to see so many children here. But it made perfect sense. 9/11 or not, lots of kiddies were visiting their prosperous grandparents, senior citizens with plenty of time and disposable income.
She took up her ballpoint.
But the kiddies grow up and have better things to do. Then your knees go, or Grandma breaks a hip. Or your grown children decide it’s time to take away your car keys. Lots of disposable income won’t help you there, and that’s when you call All Hands on Deck—
She now knew James Rivera was the real story waiting for her in Naples. She had felt it all morning and wanted to talk about him with Noelle. So far, the realtor hadn’t given her a chance.
“Wouldn’t you know—” Crossing from the entry, Noelle put her phone in her purse and slipped into the booth. “My younger sister just went into premature labor,” she said. “She’s not due for six weeks.” Noelle looked ruefully across the table. “Just when you were starting to get interested. I could see the wheels turning.”
She reached for the check, but Brenda grabbed it off the table. She paid, and they walked back to the car. Noelle got them into southbound traffic. Her car was smaller than Mrs. Krause’s Buick, but elegant. A Lexus, like Teddy Larson’s.
“If you do any cooking down here,” she said, “don’t forget that market I pointed out at Central Avenue. Wynn’s.”
“Thanks, Noelle,” Brenda said. “I’m grateful to you. This has been helpful.”
“My pleasure, honey. Jimmy Rivera has steered some good bets my way. I owe the man.”
Here was her opening.
“He left a message this morning,” Noelle said. “About someone named Chester Ivy. He lives—well, lived at the same club you’re at, Donegal. And some woman on Marco Island, named Frieslander. Her building security found her this morning.”
“You say another All Hands customer died?”
“Oh, it’s bound to happen quite a bit, isn’t it?” Noelle said, driving. “Only the elderly and their families hire All Hands. The simple truth is, that’s why Jimmy can’t ask much I’d say no to. When one of his clients goes to their reward, I’m the ‘first responder,’ you could call it. Families usually want to sell ASAP. I’m the first one with a foot in the door. Because of Jimmy.”
“Does he live in Naples?”
“Immokalee,” Noelle said. “A half hour inland. Lots of Hispanic people live there. The labor force, if you will.” Noelle checked her makeup in the rearview.
“So, you know him well,” Brenda said.
The realtor shook her head. “Not really. He’s a great guy but very private. I think he may be an illegal. The polite term is ‘undocumented alien,’ but with him it doesn’t matter. People like Jimmy Rivera, that’s all. You could say it’s sort of a don’t-ask-don’t-tell kind of thing.”
◆◆◆◆◆
Home, she tossed her shoulder bag on the couch and stepped into the bedroom. Her laptop stood open on the dresser. She unplugged it, went back to the living room and pulled open the door wall.
Outside, the pool glittered; bright afternoon sun was making the eighth fairway a static, emerald river. On the far side, a golfer was pulling his clubs, enjoying the afternoon all
